The Aorist Tense
by kurushi
Summary: 18-year-old Integral is studying the Aorist, and thinking, late at night. IxA. Originally posted on LJ in 2008. I've never got much feedback on this one, so I'd love any comments or criticism.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's Note: Previously posted to my livejournal account in 2008_

**The Aorist Tense**

He knew, and she knew that he knew. And he knew, that she knew that he knew.

It went around in circles.

Integral Wingates Hellsing sat down at her desk, and looked down at the papers on it. They were right where they'd been half an hour ago, and half an hour before that.

But, could she read that, if it came down to it in an exam? University was very different to her previous studies, and the Aorist was somehow much more frustrating and complex than running the Hellsing organisation. Even now, when Walter had started to ease off on the advice, and she was beginning to truly take control of the organisation, it seemed much more intuitive and straightforward than the past tense.

Except for when it came to dealing with Alucard. He was, perhaps, on the same level as the Aorist. The middle Aorist. Of an irregular verb.

She pushed her Attic Greek primer away, and settled down to glare at the more comprehensible forms and reports that her organisation had generated that week. She fought down the blush that she could feel warming her cheeks, though she knew it probably wouldn't show on her skin, and felt apprehension swell again inside.

Because she'd been spending more time outside, recently. In the full sunlight. Because even if he _could_ walk during the day, it was one of her "piss off and leave me alone" signs. One of her "I don't want to think about what happens in this city after dark" moments.

Because he knew.

Well, to be honest, she admitted to herself – and not for the first time – as she pushed aside her notes and began to review the last report of an incident, he'd been able to tell right from the start. First day they met, the first time he'd tasted her blood. He'd grinned at her, and made all the awful people disappear, like her knight in shining armour.

For a moment, she'd almost thought she could see the faint light of that room glinting off of armour, in fact, but then she'd blinked, cleaned her glasses on her shirt, and it had just been him. Tall, grinning, and staring straight into her.

So of course he had known. But back then, she'd been an awkward, scared, blushing, giddy child. It had been six years, and she was all of eighteen now.

So she should have moved on. Gotten over him. Her plan had been to graduate with her A-levels, enrol in university, and get Walter's assistance in chosing the appropriate man to marry. A smart, kind man. A man who would raise children for her, lots of children, in a very very far away place, while she ran things here.

But, ah, now even focusing on the report was difficult. Integral bit absently on the end of her pencil, and pulled the grammar book back into pride of place before her chest.

But carrying on the Hellsing name wasn't that easy. She wasn't ready for childbirth, because it seemed painful and disgusting.

But that wasn't it, not really. Not even, _- epausamen – _because it was uncomfortable. Because being the leader of the Hellsing organisation was very dangerous, and she was still a virgin. If anything happened to her...

He would, she knew. Do what was neccesary, but also what he wanted.

And fuck, oh god, her body probably wasn't done with growing up yet. Because the hormones that drove her libido wanted him to.

But that wasn't it, oh no, not really. Really, honestly, it was because she was still hung up on this stupid concept of the tall, dark, ominous, slightly batty – in more ways than one – knight in shining armour. Her servant. Her Count. With a demonstrably long, strong, flexible tongue...

Fuck! Fuck on a fucking crapping stick. Because she hadn't grown out of it yet. Because Sir Integral Wingates Hellsing was supposed to be graceful, powerful, elegant. Untouchable, and pure. The last bulwark against which the hellhounds would...

Oh, stop! Stop these thoughts! He might hear them.

Could he hear them?

Had he?

It didn't really matter, given his age. He'd been her age, once. He'd seen countless humans grow and perspire and rut and moan and then give up in apathy. He knew what girls her age felt like. Inside and out.

_She wished he knew what _she _felt like, at this age. In the dark, with the scent of blood and the adrenaline coursing through her brain and fingers, tingling and..._

Stop!

She couldn't let herself think about these things, because he knew. And she knew that he knew, and he knew that she knew that he knew.

And he hadn't said anything, which was unusual for him. He was always flirting and pressing her. So why hadn't he teased her about it, unless he was averse to it? Or worse, eager, and playing with her for the fun of it...

She felt a stab of splintering pain in her tongue, and raised her hand to her mouth. The pencil had shattered in her teeth, damp and stringy, catching against her gums as she carefully took the looser pieces out. The sticky blood filling her mouth made it difficult, spilling like raindrops down on all the reports, her study notes, her grammar book. Tricking her fingers as they tried to pull out the splinters.

She couldn't help but wonder if he was in the shadows, right now. It was dark outside, but it was a slow year for occult happenings. Not that many ghouls to kill this week.

Oh yes, he was there. Now she focused, she could feel the short hairs on the backs of her arms rise and almost sing aloud with the sensation of it.

If she was dreaming, he would quietly stalk towards her, wrap his heavy cold arms around her neck, and lean downwards.

_Clean this up, Servant_, she'd think.

Not speak, because of the blood, but she'd command him nontheless. And he'd stretch down further, over her shoulder, and stroke his tongue into her mouth. He would lave at her damaged skin, and stroke and suck until every last splinter was gone. The coolness of his body would help to constrict her blood vessels, slow the bleeding. Then he would move and kneel before her, soundlessly, awaiting direction.

But it wasn't a dream. Instead, because he knew, that she knew, that he knew, perhaps, he strode loudly across the room and knelt before her. He ignored her blood, and stared at her eyes.

Not like a servant, for a moment, but like her father. Once. When he'd been around, and she'd skinned her knee, when she was about six. Her father had tutted, and hoisted her up. He'd made reassuring noises, and chatted to her kindly, as he carried her into a bathroom and rinsed the dirt out. Not like the maids, who scolded, and chided, and said "this might sting". Not cold, but very warm, and comforting, and kind. So kind.

Alucard smiled up at her, warmly. Not insanely, or lewdly, or coldly. Warmly. He carefully cupped her chin in one hand, and guided her lips open with the other. Carefully, he extended his fingers into her mouth.

Integra felt a hollow, violent, tearing tug in her gums. It was so painful that it she was no longer aware of where the splinters were. It tore away her thoughts, until she was only aware of the pain. It felt like death, she thought. How she imagined death; a few seconds of intense pain, perhaps in one's chest, before everything faded away. The mind flickering out.

Then, suddenly, it was over, and her world faded back to flat, normal darkness. Only then did Integra realise that she had been seeing a blanket-fog of red, instead of the cool dark room.

Alucard smiled and laughed softly, and patted her on the head.

His fingers were _so warm_! She hadn't expected him to be warm. The last time she'd really touched him, and paid attention to it, he had been the barely reanimated corpse in the basement. Ice and dried jerky-flesh. Nowhere near as alive and real as he was today. He felt soft, and warm.

He ruffled her hair, with his dry and clean glove, and walked to the door. It was unusually human for him.

"You should take care, Master," He said softly, as he reached for the handle. "You shouldn't be putting such... rigid... things in your mouth."

Then the door shut. She heard him laugh, quietly but deeply, as he deliberately strode slowly down the hallway.

She felt the blush return, so strongly now that it would show despite her tan. She put shaky hands down on the desk, and started. There were stains, of the blood drops, but nowhere near as much as she'd remembered spilling. Just faint ghosts and stains on the papers.

He couldn't resist her virgin's blood.

She enjoyed that fact too much, far more than was appropriate. For her position. For her age.

If Walter knew, she would just _die _of shame.

Him knowing was enough. And his knowing that she knew, that he knew. She swore, and kicked her desk. She strode around the room three times, and tried not to think about rigid things. Or things that pierced or broke or bled. Especially not...

She screamed at the wall, then at the corner of the floor that was closest to his rooms. She screamed deliberately and unashamedly, because she was still eighteen, and her time was running out. Very soon she wouldn't be able to vent her frustration. She'd have to behave, as the head of Hellsing.

Walter, or Alucard, or she herself, would curtail it. Push and pull her into the mould of an elegant, powerful, decisive young leader.

She took a deep breath, and strode back to her desk. She pushed her stained grammar to the side, and fiddled around with the desk drawers for a few moments. Just pushing the moment back a little further, because suddenly this moment seemed like a great threshold.

She took her time studying the drawers. More pencils, which she carefully dropped into her wastebasket, one by one. Pads of paper, and a handgun. A cross. A copy of a picture of her, and her father, together.

Beneath the large frame, there was a strange flaw in the wood. It was strange, because a desk of this quality wouldn't have a ridge like that. It should have been smooth.

She ran her fingers along it, curious, and heard something click.

It was a hidden tiny compartment, that held a small case and a slip of paper.

She drew them out. The case was a tin case, special edition, Hendi Winzermans. And a short note, in her father's handwriting.

"_Your mother and I both liked these. You might need something like this, if you're sitting at this desk in an official capacity. Don't expect too much from him."_

She would have cried or shaken, a few months ago. Maybe just a few hours ago. Instead she tucked the paper back into the compartment, and after taking a cigar out, slid the case into her breastpocket.

Integral felt stable, and capable. She felt that, although she would never feel truly safe again, most likely, in her life, that things would be alright.

The door opened, and she froze. It was Walter, thankfully. He carried a tray to her desk with tea and biscuits, and then looked very pointedly down at the notes. Up at her mouth.

She felt his eyes on her lips, and readied herself for a lecture on the nature of monsters, and the virtues of virginity. But instead he just watched her for a few moments, looked down, presumably to the bloodstains on her shirt, and then back up to her lips again.

"Sir... is that a... cigar?"

She frowned, and summoned her most stern glare, though she doubted it would work on Walter. She'd learnt it, in part, from him, after all.

"I'll make a note to purchase a lighter, and secure a supply. Just in case, sir."

He left silently, but she could almost hear his smirk, it was so broad. The fucking bastard. He knew! And he knew, that _he_ knew, that she knew, that he knew...

FUCK!

She ground her teeth against the cigar, probably wasting it with her blood and saliva, and not having a light for it. Not caring. One day, she would truly be powerful, and capable, and they, as her insubordinate subordinates, would pay.

She'd have to learn to control the damned blushing, but oh then, yes then – maybe when she'd also learnt how to smoke – then, they would suffer for laughing at her like this.

When she went to bed, in the dark, and she had stripped off her glasses and suit, it was easier. She cried, for the shame. She tongued the roof of her mouth, to curiously taste the blood. She thought of England, the hordes of the undead, and herself. She thought about Alucard, cigars, and the Aorist tense.

Then she let her hand slide down between her legs.


End file.
